Is it Friday yet?

Things are a bit crazy here. This past weekend was the calm before the storm. Quiet dinners of roasted chicken and red snapper and homemade lasagna—we eat well at the Brentwood Chateau! But now the rain is coming down in a steady stream. Not an Arizona monsoon rain but a steady drip-drop all across Los Angeles. There’s something I love about the rain, but I must say: I am done! It’s been too much these last few weeks. Sunshine, where are you?

Now work is nuts once again (job security!) and my roommate is moving out (oh well), so things are a bit mucky. C’est la vie.

Not much time to write anything else but wanted to share a poem.

Perfection Wasted
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market --
the quips, the witticisms, the slant adjusted to a few,
those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed in
the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

~John Updike